


Cave Me In

by alphablues



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Confessions, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Slow Burn, all of seventeen are here, am i supposed to ramble in the tags like this?, but like...only sort of?, it's poly, its a poly fic, jihoon Thinks a lot, minor character injury, not sure what that tag is about but it seemed fitting, there's barely any angst tbh, vague idol verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12106782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphablues/pseuds/alphablues
Summary: Jihoon can't make sense of the idea that Junhui and Wonwoo want something with him, something like a relationship. He can't make sense of his feelings or the weird pounding in his chest. He can't make sense of anything really.He doesn't remember being so bad at thinking.





	Cave Me In

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is like one part character study and one part practice for writing poly. Is it good? Is it worth reading? Probably not, but you're already here so it's too late to exit the tab. Also, if any of y'all read The Ones Who Love You, these characters are like...completely contradictory to the ones in that fic. This was supposed to be 5k lmao. It's 4am here so please excuse any grammar mistakes and bad writing.

They’re alone in the studio, Jihoon and Junhui. That, in and of itself isn’t, strange. Jihoon has been alone with the other boy more times than he can count. Because they work together and live together and are best friends. Even with so many members it still works out that way sometimes. And it’s normal to be alone with your friends.

What’s strange is that while Jihoon is clicking around on his computer, trying to make something out of nothing with a couple samples and a half-finished page of lyrics, Junhui is just sitting on the dusty couch across the room _staring_ at him. Just staring, all wide-eyed while he chews on a thumb nail, has been for the last forty-five minutes at least. It’s making Jihoon uncomfortable, setting him on edge, enough that he begins jiggling his leg anxiously. Only he keeps hitting his knee on the underside of his desk and the entire situation is starting to become ridiculous.

When he finally decides that he’s had enough, he whirls around in his wheel-y chair and opens his mouth to speak, to snap something at Junhui about manners and staring, but the other boy beats him to it.

“Jihoonie,” he says, soft but deliberate, like something important will follow, “I like you.”

And? Okay? Jihoon feels his brow furrow in confusion, because _obviously_ Jun likes him, their entire friendship would have fallen apart years ago if he didn’t.

“I-I know? I like you too?” He says, words tugging unwittingly up into questions at the end.

Jun huffs a single laugh and smiles, fond and familiar.

“No, I mean I _like_ you. Like, more than a friend.”

And Jihoon is even more confused now because-“But, Wonwoo?”

And it isn’t exactly what he wants to say, but it gets the point across, because, well, _Wonwoo_. Also, why would Junhui like _Jihoon_ , of all people?

Junhui looks confused now too.

“What about Wonwoo?” He asks, cocking his head to the side in a very cat-like motion.

“You guys are-are, _whatever_.” He waves a hand, hoping Junhui understands what he’s trying to get at.

“Dating?” Jun supplies.

Jihoon sighs and leans heavy against the back of his seat, feeling suddenly exhausted by this entire conversation. “Yeah, that.”

“Yeah, we are.” Jun sighs, but it’s a dreamy thing, wispy with affection. Jihoon can practically see the hearts in his eyes.

“So, what’s the deal? Why are you telling me that you like me? Are you…looking for a-a _side piece_ or something, because that’s _not_ what I’m into, and pretty fucked up actually since-”

Jun cuts him off with a rush of words and waving hands. “No! _No_ , God no. I-we…both like you?”

Briefly, Jihoon wonders if maybe he turned his chair too fast earlier and hit his head on the wall or something, because he must be hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or maybe he died and went to hell and now he’s enduring some weird form of penance for all the times he ate the others’ leftovers and blamed it on Vernon. Satan must be one bored motherfucker because literally, _what the hell_?

Or maybe _Jun_ hit his head and now he’s just spouting nonsense because he has a head wound that Jihoon can’t see from where he’s sitting.

“Did you hit your head earlier?” He asks, somewhat frantically.

Jun gives him a look like he thinks his friend might have finally lost it once and for all.

“What? _No_. Have you even been listening to me? We _like_ you.” He says it definitively enough that Jihoon decides he can’t have a potentially fatal head wound hidden somewhere under all that bleached hair.

“I heard you the first time.” He admits.

“So?” He seems expectant, but Jihoon has no idea what he might be expecting.

“So?” Jihoon echoes.

Junhui looks down at his hands and back up again. His eyes are bright, shining with _something_. Jihoon doesn’t want to consider the emotion, can’t bring himself to. This all feels like one big mess. He wants to tell himself that Jun has never looked at him like that before, but he has, a million times.

“What, um, do you think about it?” He asks, eyes shy.

Jihoon figures ‘It’ must be his earlier confession. And honestly? Jihoon has no idea how he feels. He sighs for what feels like the hundredth time in the last five minutes alone. He doesn’t know what to say.

He opts for honestly because it’s what Junhui deserves, though it might not be what he wants to hear.

“I don’t know, Junnie. I don’t-I just-I need to finish this song and I can’t do that with you sitting there staring at me.” He could have been kinder, maybe, but it gets the job done.

He convinces himself he doesn’t feel sick at the sight of Junhui’s face falling. His delicate shoulders slump in obvious dejection and he rises from the couch with a puff of dust.

“Okay, Jihoonie. I-I’ll leave you alone now. Sorry.” He murmurs, quiet and resigned.

Jihoon wants to tell him not to apologize, but the other boy is already gone, door closing behind him without a sound.

…

The issue isn’t that Jihoon doesn’t like Junhui, or Wonwoo for that matter. The issue is that he hasn’t even given himself the chance to _consider_ liking them, for a number of reasons. The greatest one being the fact that the last time he allowed himself to like someone (within the group no less) it had ended in Seungcheol letting him down easy while Jihoon fought the urge to weep from humiliation.

It had taken him two months of writing painfully obvious love songs and useless pining to get over his little infatuation, and things were awkward between them for nearly half a year following the whole debacle. Jihoon has absolutely no desire to repeat the experience.

Only, Junhui’s confession has forced him to consider it and Jihoon is beginning to think it isn’t much of a consideration at all. Rather, a realization. The next few days find Jihoon realizing a lot of things.

The first epiphany of sorts comes when they’re all gathered in the practice room late one night. Or early one morning, depending on how you look at things. It has to be some time past three and they’re all tired, sweaty, and hungry, but they have at least an hour longer of practice left until they can go home. Everyone is exhausted, but no one complains when Soonyoung resets the music and ushers them back into their positions, because they all know they’re working towards a common goal, one that is much more important than their momentary misery.

Jihoon has the steps down already, has had them memorized since the initial run-through, and lets his mind wander a bit as his body follows the music. Inexplicably, his eyes drift to Junhui’s form where it’s being reflected on the long wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. His movements are sharp and clean and _alive_ , as always. He hasn’t always been as good of a dancer as he is now, but there’s always been something about his motions that somehow captivated Jihoon.

He has thought, on more than one occasion, that the other boy is much like a cat. Not a housecat- docile and slow from centuries of domestication- but one of the wild breeds. What with the way grace and intention seem to color each of his sleek gestures, the way his joints seem to roll smooth and easy without much effort at all, as if he were a predator by design.

Fluidity and poise were things Jihoon had to work hard at. It took him a year of late-night practices to ease all of the odd jerkiness out of his steps. It comes to him easy as air now, after so many years, but Junhui had never been that way. His body had never followed the eccentricities of his mind. The decade he spent studying martial arts might have had something to do with it, but Jihoon got the feeling that part of it was just inherent, like a rhythm in his blood.

Jihoon had learned dance well enough by the time he met Junhui to skip past any feelings of jealousy, right into awe. He couldn’t give a name to whatever otherness Junhui seemed to possess, but it made him very conscious of every shift and turn the other boy made, in and out of the practice room. He was like a constant flash of activity on Jihoon’s radar, bright and insistently beeping, impossible to ignore.  

But today he isn’t thinking about any of that. He isn’t thinking about the way Junhui seems to execute every sweep and bow with an ease that can’t be learned or taught. He isn’t thinking about the other boy’s clean lines and fine motions. He isn’t thinking much of anything at all, because his mind had short-circuited the moment his eyes locked on a bead of sweat that had trickled down and down and down Junhui’s long neck until finally settling into the curve of his collarbones. He feels himself swallow hard and wonders, idly, if it’s normal to feel so strongly about a person’s _bones_.

(And if that doesn’t sound like something straight from the mind of a serial killer).

He tries to drag his eyes away, tries to focus on something, _anything_ else. It seems like a terrible idea to let his gaze drift further down, so he moves it up instead, to Junhui’s face. When he finds his friend staring back at him through the mirror he’s shocked enough that his stumbles over his own feet. Those dark eyes are disarming enough on a good day, but prove to be even more dangerous whilst one is in the midst of some complicated footwork.

 The scuffed-up practice room floor rises up to meet him far too quickly. He can’t seem to get his feet secure beneath him.  He’s going to fall face first, he’s sure. He’s going to hit his head hard enough to spill his distracted little brains all over the hardwood and then he’ll die, all because he made accidental eye contact with Wen Fucking Junhui. 

Just as he begins to brace for impact, Wonwoo reaches out a quick hand and steadies him easily. And Jihoon is grateful, so grateful that he’s just been saved from imminent death, but then something kicks up and starting tripping inside of him.

 _A tiny alien is living in my chest_. He tells himself, except no, his heart is just racing because of the wide-eyed look in Junhui’s eyes and the way Wonwoo’s chilly fingers on the overheated flesh of his forearm seem to be burning through him.

It takes him longer than it should to realize Soonyoung has stopped the music and is now looking at him, annoyed and maybe a touch concerned. He cautions a glance around the room and finds that, actually, _everyone_ is looking at him. He thinks Joshua might have asked him if he’s okay, but he isn’t certain.

He tries to get a grip; tries to clear his mind and form coherent thoughts so he can put together a plausible excuse for his odd behavior.

“Uh. I-I have to pee.” He says, like a fucking idiot, before rushing out of the room without another word.

Once he’s safely locked up in a stall, hands pressed against his burning cheeks in an attempt to soothe the heat, he realizes the only thing he had been thinking while staring and Junhui was _pretty_.

 _Pretty. Pretty. Pretty_. It had been running on a loop in his mind.

…

Two days later Jihoon overhears the two of them talking in the living room while he’s on his way to the kitchen for breakfast. It’s early enough that the sun is only beginning to rise and they have an early schedule, but most of the kids haven’t gotten up yet. Their voices are hushed and careful so as not to disturb anyone. Nosey and paranoid, Jihoon leans against the wall and strains to hear them from the darkness of the hallway.

“-I don’t know, Wonwoo. I think I broke him or something.” Junhui mumbles, regretful.

Something pinches in Jihoon’s chest. He figures the little alien must be at it again.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Wonwoo soothes. “He probably just needs time. It’s kind of a lot to take in.”

Jihoon thinks ‘ _a lot’_ doesn’t even come close.

Junhui sniffles and Jihoon can imagine the way he must rub at his itchy nose. His allergies always bother him early in the morning.

“It’s a lot for us too, but we aren’t avoiding him.” His words are annoyed, but beneath that there is obvious hurt.

The little alien pinches again like the punk that it is. Jihoon wants to rush into the room and tell Junhui that he isn’t avoiding them, that he is actually just confused to the point of inaction, but he hangs back instead. They might be about to say something important.

Wonwoo sighs. “Yeah, but you know how Jihoon is. I’m sure he’ll come around soon.”

And what does _that_ even mean? How he is? What the hell? How _is_ he?

He doesn’t hear whatever they say next because someone pokes him in the back, hard, making him start. He turns and finds Vernon giving him a sleepy look of confusion.

Around a massive yawn, he asks “Hyung, are you eavesdropping?”

Jihoon should lie, probably.  

“Yeah.” He admits.

Vernon seems unfazed which is about par for the course. An unsurprising response, even to Jihoon’s uncharacteristic behavior.

“Well can you do it on the other side of the hall, because you’re blocking the bathroom.”

Jihoon looks over his shoulder and yeah, he’s standing right in front of the bathroom door.

“Shit, sorry kid.” He apologizes, moving to the side.

“S’okay. Also, for what it’s worth, I think they like you.” Vernon says this like he’s revealing a big secret.

It’s definitely the least helpful thing anyone has said to him in a long time, but Jihoon appreciates the sentiment.

…

The van is neutral ground. That’s been an unspoken but undeniable rule accepted between all of them for years. The van is neutral ground. Seats are decided through a democratic game of rock-paper-scissors, snacks are to be evenly shared, and physical violence isn’t permitted once the doors have been closed. _The van is neutral ground_.

And Jihoon isn’t some boring ass square. He values change and growth and evolution just as much as the next bitter crytid. Civil discourse and intellectual anarchy are important for the advancement of any society, even if that society is just thirteen boys trying to make it in a dog-eat-dog industry. But he still maintains the idea that some rules _aren’t_ meant to be broken.

The van is supposed to be neutral ground, a place where he can throw his head back on the too-hard headrest and get a few extra minutes of sleep on the way to a schedule without having to hear a million other tittering idols like he does in the broadcast station green room. It’s supposed to be a place where he can steal some of Seokmin’s shrimp snacks without the kid kneeing him the balls like he would were they in the dorm. It’s supposed to be a neutral space.

Jihoon knows the dictionary definition of neutral, had to learn once for a vocabulary quiz in middle school and still remembers it exactly: _not taking part or giving assistance in a dispute or war between others_.

Ordinarily, Jihoon would not compare two of his closest friends to aggressors in a war, but in this very moment Jihoon is feeling attacked. He is feeling aggressed. He is feeling anything _but_ neutral.

They had practice which isn’t anything new. All they do is practice these days. Jihoon has accidently started getting abs from all of the dancing they’ve been doing. (They’re small and misshapen and sort of pathetic, and he isn’t all that sure how he feels about them). It went longer today than usual, and they’re all sweaty and smelly and exhausted but they still have to endure a ten-minute ride in the van before they can really rest.

Through the wonders of rock-paper-scissors Jihoon is awarded the seat between the two boys he _has not_ been trying to avoid. He’s fine climbing up into the van. He’s fine scooting into the seat next to Junhui. He’s fine up until Wonwoo takes the seat next to him. He’s fine until Wonwoo fills up the space beside him and erases the last shreds of neutrality Jihoon had been attempting to cling to.

Something strange happens to him the moment the side door slides shut, effectively closing them in. The humid air filling the car seems to press in around him, as do the boys close at his sides. He feels trapped, like he’s been backed into a corner. The feeling isn’t as unfamiliar to him as he would like it to be, but today the corner is new.

Today the corner is filled with warm, sticky limbs and the smell of rapidly drying sweat. There’s the spice of Wonwoo’s skin so close to him, the earthy scent of sun and the taro milk tea he always gets from the shop near their dorm. There’s the corded muscles in Junhui’s thigh where it’s flush against one of Jihoon’s own, the shimmery flash of golden flesh through the ripped knees of his jeans and the too-wide holes of his muscle tee.

It’s like they’re assaulting his senses. Even with his head facing perfectly forward, eyes fixed on a piece of lint clinging to Chan’s hair, it’s like they’re all he can see. He can hear them speaking over his head, but he can’t seem to parse out any words, just the deep hum of Wonwoo’s voice overlaid by Junhui’s higher, honeyed tone. Every few moments they glance down at him, their gazes dark and heavy, heavier than Jihoon has ever felt them. He doesn’t understand why he’s so affected. He isn’t even sure _what_ is it that’s affecting him.

Their proximity? Their presence alone?

Jihoon will never say it with his own two lips, but he’s small and he knows it. He can easily squeeze in next to just about anyone (except that abnormal fuck Mingyu) and he’s done it a thousand times. He’s made this exact trip back from the practice room between these exact people more times than he can even begin to count. And it has never made him feel this way, unsteady with a strange heat beneath his skin. The little alien in his chest is rioting.

A thought flits across his mind, intrusive an unwarranted.

He sees Junhui sitting on the couch in his studio, wringing his hands and biting his lip like he has something important to say. He sees Junhui open his mouth. He hears the words again, echoing back at him from a week ago. _‘Jihoonie, I like you. We both like you’_.

The memory makes him jerk hard in his seat.

“Jihoonie, are you okay?”

Idly, Jihoon wonders if Junhui has always said his name like that, soft and quiet like his mouth is holding a precious secret. His fingers twitch where they’re gripping his knees, the tips itch to reach out and grab something, anything. He eyes Wonwoo’s hand where it’s splayed on the seat between them. With a rough swallow, he drags his gaze away, steadfastly refocuses it on the back of Chan’s head.

“I-” his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, dry, “I can’t talk to you right now.”

He doesn’t say it to be mean, but Junhui tenses beside him anyways and opens his mouth to shoot something back.

Wonwoo shakes his head. “Leave it, Junhui.”

The rest of the ride is awkward and tense. When the van finally pulls to a stop in front of their apartment building Jihoon practically launches himself across the seat in front of him in his haste to escape. In his rush, he manages snag his balls on the armrest.

While he’s sprawled on the pavement outside their dorm, clutching his literally injured manhood, he realizes that he had been nearly hard. Before this onset of erection flagging pain, he had been nearly _hard_ from the smell of his friends’ _sweat_.  

What the actual fuck.

…

Jihoon likes his studio. It’s a little small and musty and it’s always a hassle when he tries to record there because it’s really kind of cramped. And it could probably use a window, or a ceiling fan at least, but he likes it fine. Loves it really. Harbors a strange but strong affection for the glorified broom cupboard because, regardless of its shortcomings, at the end of the day it’s _his_.

It was the first place where he felt he belonged after he moved to Seoul. The trainee accommodations where crowded and impersonal and changed too often to ever be considered a home. The practice room was a 400 square-foot hell he endured alongside twenty other boys for the sake of his dreams. Both places were familiar, but a strange, tense air surrounded both of them and made it impossible for him to ever feel truly at ease in either one.

 _How much longer do I have to spend here?_ He often wondered.

Then he got his studio; his beautiful, wonderful, poorly-lit studio outfitted with a slightly outdated desktop and secondhand recording equipment. It was all he had, for a long time. He has a home now, of course, in the dorm and in the members, but the studio is still _his_. His place.

However, it would seem that all roads lead to Rome. Only Rome is his studio and the roads are…still roads actually, and okay maybe this analogy has gotten away from him a bit. The point is, people keep barging through the creaky door uninvited even though he must have told them all a hundred times not to bother him while he’s working.

The unwanted visitor today is Wonwoo, also known as Undesirable #1. Not because Jihoon hates him or anything, but because he most definitely wants to talk about _things_ regarding Jihoon’s _things_ and Jihoon has been trying to avoid every _thing_ at all costs.

Jihoon isn’t doing much on his computer, hasn’t been able to do much of anything in terms of composition since Junhui…confessed. (And God, he hates that word). So even though he has his headphones on over his ears, he easily hears the door when it squeaks open on its rusty hinges. He breathes deeply, once, twice and very reluctantly turns to face his friend.

He looks good. Jihoon has accepted that as one of his _things_ , Wonwoo always looking good. He’s wearing a soft looking crewneck sweatshirt and a pair of jeans Jihoon suspects might actually belong to Joshua. His hair is flat and unstyled, falling into his eyes a bit because it hasn’t been cut in a while, and his wire-rimmed glasses are teetering precariously on the tip of his nose.

 _Cute_. His mind supplies. He blames it on the alien in his chest, figures it must have invaded his brain too.

He speaks in an effort to distract himself from his own thoughts.  “Your glasses are dirty.”

It’s true, the lenses of Wonwoo’s glasses are uncharacteristically smudge around the edges.

“Oh.”

Wonwoo seems taken aback, by Jihoon’s words and the fact that he spoke at all. He removes his glasses and takes a moment to wipe them clean on the edge of his sweater before placing them on his face once again. He seems nervous, but only a little. Slightly more than Junhui the other day, like he has something to say but ultimately doesn’t expect a negative outcome. Jihoon figures neither of them is all locked up inside like him. There’s no way they would be able to navigate their feelings so well if they had corridors inside of them filled with endless drop-offs and dead-ends the way Jihoon does.

“I wanted to talk.” He says.

Jihoon considers letting loose a snarky ‘ _obviously’_ , but decides against it.

Instead he says “Yeah.”

Wonwoo stands idly in the doorway for a beat before finally shutting the door and crossing the room to take a seat on the worn-down couch. The leather is peeling in more than a few places and has completely split in others. Jihoon has been asking for a new one for the last year at least, to no avail.

“Junhui told me what he said to you- that we like you.” He doesn’t exactly seem happy about it.  

“Yeah, I told him I needed…time, I guess.”

It feels weird, talking to Wonwoo about this. It feels weird talking about any of this at all.  Jihoon feels spectacularly awkward in his desk chair, hands gripped on the armrests while his toes drag against the carpeted floor.  

“I know. I’m not trying to push you or anything. I just thought I should clear some stuff up.”

Wonwoo’s words are innocuous really, but they make something in Jihoon tense. He suddenly feels drawn tight, like a rubber band about to snap, and he isn’t certain why. A lump rises up in his throat and he grips the armrests of his chair tighter, as though he’s bracing himself. He feels as though he’s about to receive bad news. But what bad news could there be?

After unsuccessfully attempting to swallow around the lump in his throat, he forces himself to speak.

“Sure.” He says. “Shoot.”

Wonwoo rubs the palms of his hands across the fabric of his jeans, a nervous habit. They’ve held hands enough for Jihoon to know that Wonwoo’s get clammy when he’s anxious.

“I just…I really wish Junhui hadn’t told you the way that he did.” He says, frustration evident in his voice.

Jihoon sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and chews at it enough that a few dry patches of skin tear off with the motion. He tastes blood in his mouth, salty and metallic.

“Oh.” And he hates himself for how small his voice sounds.

There’s only about three feet of space between the two of them but it feels like a stretching chasm. Jihoon had read about canyons once in the Scholastic magazine. It said because of wind and rain and whatever else they were always growing, naturally eroding. Those three feet seem to expand similarly between them.

Wonwoo must see something on his face because he sighs.

“I _do_ like you Jihoonie.” He huffs a laugh, a touch bitter around the edges with self-deprecation. “I really do. I just don’t want you to feel pressured.”

The rubber band snaps hard against Jihoon’s ribs, but he relishes the sting. The canyon closes up before his eyes.

“It’s okay.” Jihoon says, and he means it.

Wonwoo smiles, the smallest curl of lips, and it’s as exhausted around the edges as Jihoon’s mind.

“You just need time?” He suggests.

“Yeah.” Jihoon feels guilty, but he isn’t sure of what.

It isn’t until he’s alone again, staring blankly at his darkened computer screen, that he realizes he was afraid Wonwoo would take back what Junhui said.

…

There was a time, somewhere around his final year of middle school, when Jihoon became listless and irritable. He stopped doing his schoolwork, stopped participating in his clubs and taking part in school events. He would lash out at anyone and everyone given the slightest provocation; friends, teachers, parents. _The stormy period_ , his mother had called it. About halfway through the semester Jihoon was summoned to the guidance office and given a long and painful talk about hormones and body hair suddenly growing in strange places and the mystical powers of puberty. The conversation would top Jihoon’s list of Painfully Awkward Experiences for years to come. 

He got over it by the time the summer holidays rolled around, went back to being a diligent son and a hardworking student as if nothing had ever changed. His family laughed it off and the few friends he had welcomed him back with open arms.

In the years since Jihoon became a well-adjusted and emotionally sophisticated young man, he has had little to no reason to reflect back on that time of his life. But over the last two or so weeks he has come to understand that a healthy dose of self-reflection never hurt anybody. And on his recent path of self-reflection he had realized that all of his eighth-grade angst wasn’t actually as far behind him as he would have liked it to be.

Because, as he sits at their poorly constructed, wobbly-legged E-Mart dining table, he feels much like he did all those years ago. That is: angry and annoyed, with a sneaking suspicion that the whole world is plotting against him, all while trying to snatch some of Seungkwan’s sweet and sour pork without being noticed.

Dinnertime doesn’t ordinarily bring on episodes of nostalgic self-analysis for Jihoon, but there’s a first time for everything.

They’ve ordered in Chinese from the good place by the subway station, the one that always seems to quell Minghao’s homesickness a bit. It’s more expensive than a lot of the less authentic places closer by, but it’s great, better than great really. Jihoon can’t feel his lips or tongue from the sheer amount of chili oil coating his noodle dish, the name of which he butchered horribly, but he savors the sensation. It helps to distract him from the cause of his vexation; the fact that, for the second time in as many days, he is pressed between Junhui and Wonwoo.

He’s trying his absolute best to just focus on his food. He keeps reminding himself that if he just powers through the meal he’ll be free to retire to his room where he can suffer through his minor existential crisis in peace.

The others are chattering on as they usually do, stealing from each other’s plates and sharing drinks and pretending like their mouths aren’t on fire. (Seungcheol is seated down at the other end of the table, dangerously red in the face, panting over his chicken stir-fry). Their voices meld together with the ambient sounds of clinking glasses and metal chopsticks hitting melamine dishware to create a comfortably distracting cacophony.

It doesn’t do enough. Jihoon can still feel the insistent heat radiating from the bodies on either side of him, driving him slowly mad. He tries to focus in on a single voice, tries to occupy his mind by eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation, but then Wonwoo makes a noise. It’s a tiny thing, almost inaudible, but distressed enough that Jihoon’s wandering attention latches onto it immediately.

He turns curiously to find the other boy pulling a piece of sautéed squid from mouth, expression distinctly displeased. After setting it aside on a napkin, he peers down at the contents of his takeout bowl with a pensive expression. Even from where he’s sitting Jihoon can tell that the vegetable fried rice Wonwoo ordered is overflowing with an assortment of seafood. Large pink prawns lay in the grains amongst curling pieces of squid and crispy little fried anchovies. Judging from the amount of food remaining in the bowl, Jihoon figures Wonwoo couldn’t have taken more than a few bites.

“Hey,” he says, catching the other boy’s attention, “do you want some of this?”

Wonwoo eyes go to the food first then to Jihoon’s face and he opens his mouth as if to reply. However, halfway through the motion he freezes with his gaze caught somewhere below Jihoon’s nose.  A beat passes and then another while Jihoon wait’s for Wonwoo to gather his bearings, but he simply sits there, frozen. He doesn’t even seem to blink.

With a jolt, Jihoon realizes Wonwoo is staring at his _mouth_.

“Uh, is there food on my mouth or something?” He asks, wiping at his face self-consciously.

“What?” Wonwoo’s voice is distant, like his mind is off somewhere else.

Jihoon clears his throat awkwardly. “I-is there something on my face? You’re kind of…staring.”

Wonwoo finally looks at him then, in the eyes. There’s a slight flush high on his cheekbones, as if he’s embarrassed by his own behavior.

“Sorry. Just-your lips-the sauce made your lips swollen.”

“Oh.” Is all Jihoon can think to say back. He isn’t sure he understands.  

Still feeling self-conscious, he licks at his tingling mouth anxiously. Wonwoo’s gaze follows the motion intently, pupils blowing wide and dark as he does. The veins in his throat stretch and tighten as he swallows hard. He seems to be in some sort of daze as he reaches one fine-boned hand up towards Jihoon’s face, allowing a rough thumb to find its way to the corner of Jihoon’s mouth.

“You look like you’ve been…kissed.” He admits, tone low and reverent.

He presses his thumb against the sensitive, reddened flesh of Jihoon’s bottom lip. In response, something warm and intoxicating unfurls deep in Jihoon’s belly. He is struck with the odd desire to lick across the calloused pad of Wonwoo’s thumb and suck the digit into his mouth, to taste the salt of his skin.

Down the table, Joshua crows away at one of Seokmin’s cheesy jokes. The spell is broken. They turn away from each other, both pink in the cheeks and not quite sure of what just transpired. Neither of them speak as they busy themselves with their meals once again. Wonwoo picks around the seafood in his rice without another peep. Jihoon pretends he isn’t watching the other boy from the corner of his eye all the while.

As he shovels more noodles into his mouth, his mind flits back to that moment in his studio when he felt the distance between them so profoundly. He thinks those few feet of space were never a canyon at all, but a desert. He’s sure he can feel the heat of it prickling under his skin, drying out his mouth, making him shift in is seat. He fights down a sip of water and allows himself to wonder whether the heat will consume them in the end.   

…

It isn’t Jeonghan’s fault. Jihoon can admit that. It isn’t Jeonghan’s fault.

Though admittedly he probably shouldn’t have trusted Jeonghan to begin with, given his history of unwanted meddling and mischief. He isn’t a _bad_ guy really. He’s warm and kind and caring more than anything else, but he does have a habit of interfering in the lives of others’ when he feels that the situation calls for it. They’ve all fallen victim to the meddlesome auntie living inside of their bandmate, some more than others, and it usually turns out alright. Sometimes toes are stepped on and words get misconstrued, but it’s always worked out in the end. At least, nothing _horrible_ has ever happened as a result of Jeonghan’s interference, but again, there is a first time for everything.

Even still, it isn’t Jeonghan’s fault. It isn’t Mingyu’s fault either, even if, despite all of his cleanliness, he always leaves the bathroom floor soaking wet after every shower. The kid is a bit of a walking disaster, a fact which Jihoon always suspected had some connection with the boy’s abnormal height ( _no one’s_ legs should be _that_ long).

If Jihoon had to place the blame on anyone, he would put it on himself and his unmatched stupidity in the face of two certain men.

It starts like this: Soonyoung has run them ragged and they’re all desperate to wash away their sweat and soothe their aching muscles beneath the spray of a nice, hot shower. But there are thirteen people and only three bathrooms, so they have to take turns. The backbone of democracy, rock-paper-scissors, is called forth to do its duty once again. Jihoon wins about halfway through, after Jeonghan, and settles in on the couch to wait for his turn.

When the older boy walks past him as he exits the bathroom, towel drying his hair as he goes, and shoots him an easy “Shower is yours.” Jihoon doesn’t notice the impish look on his pretty face. That is his first mistake. He makes his second mistake when he fails to watch his step upon entering the steamy bathroom. His third mistake is made when he carelessly glances towards the two people still occupying the space near the mirror.

Excusing the fact that he’s meticulously styling his hair right before going to bed, Mingyu’s presence is a fairly innocuous one. But Junhui, where he stands next to the gentle giant, is another story entirely. Partly because his existence alone has been affecting Jihoon in increasingly strange and mysterious ways these days, but also because he’s neglected to dry off his back before getting dressed. The residual water has made his white shirt go translucent where it clings to the damp skin, putting the planes of his back on full display.

Now, Junhui isn’t ripped by any means. He doesn’t go to the gym and pump iron like some of the others, but Jihoon has seen him doing weird, impossible looking yoga poses with Jisoo more than once. They’re all fit, to some extent, what with all of the dancing they do. But years of martial arts on top of twisting himself up like a pretzel four times a week has made Junhui lean and _toned_ , far more than Jihoon and his pitiful, accidental abs could ever hope to be.

His back is…a sight to behold. As he goes through the motions of exfoliating, toning, and moisturizing, the golden skin shifts and ripples gloriously beneath his top. A hundred possibilities run through Jihoon’s head. Some involving a few scented candles and a little massage oil, while others are centered around _him_ being twisted up like a pretzel. His thoughts (and they are _thoughts_ , _not_ fantasies) combined with the view cause all of the air punch out of his lungs at once in one large, audible breath.

Junhui, still in the midst of patting the fifth layer of toner into his skin, looks up through the mirror in Jihoon’s direction. Their eyes lock through the glass and it reminds Jihoon so much of that moment in the practice room last week. Junhui’s gaze is alive with _something_ , soft and warm and unsettling. Jihoon isn’t sure if he can face everything swimming in those dark eyes just yet. Instinct takes over, something like fight-or-flight flooding his veins, and Jihoon takes a quick step backwards. Right onto a tile slippery with water and Seungkwan’s almond scented conditioner, marking his final and most fatal mistake. The placement of his feet is strange and unsteady and he slips. This time Wonwoo isn’t there to catch him and he rushes headfirst towards the ground, smashing the side of his face hard against the edge of the shower door as he goes.  

…

Despite the wash of blood that had run across his face and soaked through his t-shirt, the wound he sustained above his eyebrow really isn’t that serious. The doctors in the emergency room don’t even put him into a real room, that’s how minor his injury is. They just give him one of the beds that have been sectioned off with curtains in the main hall. He gets three stiches and a shot of antibiotics from a nurse and that’s pretty much it.

Soonyoung is the first person to visit him. He looks pale and worried when he steps past the little curtain acting as a makeshift door. He’s still in his clothes from practice and his hair is matted and dull from dried sweat, damaged ends evident without any product to smooth them out.

“Hey.” He greets, voice slightly hushed to accommodate their current environment.

Jihoon replies just as quietly. “Hey.”

“Mingyu thinks he killed you.” He states as he settles into the visitors’ chair next to the heartrate monitor.

Jihoon shifts back against the uncomfortable, hospital regulation pillows propping him up and sighs. They feel like a plastic bag full of plastic bags and offer basically no support, but he’s trying to maintain positive feelings towards them.

“I messaged the group chat and said I was fine.” He says.

Soonyoung waves a hand. “You know how that kid gets. He’s six feet of clumsiness and needless worry. We were all pretty worried though, for the record. There was _a lot_ of blood.”

“I’m fine. Seriously.” Jihoon assures him. “My head hurts like hell and my shirt is probably ruined, but I’m fine. They said I can start practicing again once they take the stitches out next week.”

“We don’t give a shit about _practice_ man. We’re just worried about _you_.” Soonyoung says, giving him a _look_.

Jihoon can’t help but sigh.

“I know, but I’m _fine_. I swear. I’m fine, Soon.”

Soonyoung looks at him for a long time, considering. His eyes travel to the ugly, pinched skin above Jihoon’s eyebrows and stick there for a moment, as if he can’t look away from the black medical thread holding the split flesh together. He seems to be contemplating something. He finally pulls his gaze away with a sigh and slumps against the unforgiving plastic of his seat, decision made.

“So, what happened?” He asks.

Jihoon raises an eyebrow and immediately regrets it.

He exhales roughly and speaks through the shock of pain blazing above his eye. “I fell.”

He doesn’t have to see Soonyoung’s face to know the other boy is rolling his eyes. Jihoon can practically feel the motion.

“Not _that_. I meant with Junhui and Wonwoo. You guys are fighting, right?”

Jihoon winces, but not from pain.

“Not really.” It’s the truth, but Soonyoung doesn’t seem to buy it.

“So, what’s the deal then? You’ve been avoiding each other for weeks and everyone’s noticed. It’s making us all feel weird. I think Seungcheol hyung said he was going to talk to you about it.” He says.

Jihoon sighs again. It feels like everything is becoming one huge mess.

“They…confessed, I guess?” And God, he _really_ hates that fucking word.

Soonyoung shifts in his chair, searching for a more comfortable position, and gives him a look of confusion. “Isn’t that a good thing?” 

Jihoon huffs a laugh but its dry and humorless.

“You would think so, right? But I don’t know. I told them I needed time to think and figure out my feelings or whatever. But it’s been almost three weeks and I still have no idea what I’m even feeling.”

He hadn’t meant to unload all of that on Soonyoung at once, but after the words are out it feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Beyond the sudden proof of alien life in his chest, he hadn’t realized the situation had been affecting him that much.

“But...you’re like head-over-heels for both of them?” It’s phrased as a question, but Jihoon gets the feeling that Soonyoung is telling him rather than asking.  

“I-”

“Right?” Soonyoung prompts.

When Jihoon looks back on the last few weeks, the last few months really, he realizes that the chaotic feeling in his chest- his rioting heart- isn’t anything new, not in the presence of the of the other two boys. Upon investigating further, he finds that the knot of perplexing emotions he’s been trying so hard to unravel is painted all pink and red, the soft rosy hues of love and affection. Fondness, desire, adoration, longing- he’s been going mad from it all for who knows how long.

“Shit.” He says.

“Yeah.” Soonyoung agrees.

…

The hospital discharges him after only a few more hours, sometime around five in the morning. Jihoon insists he can make it home on his own, but Seungcheol comes to walk with him anyways.

They make it a few blocks in silence, but it isn’t comfortable. Seungcheol isn’t fidgeting exactly, but he keeps shifting on his feet and Jihoon has known him long enough that he can tell when the elder has something on his mind. He thinks he has a pretty good idea of what it is that’s bothering him too.

“Remember when we were still trainees?” He finally asks.

Jihoon knows exactly where this conversation is headed, but he doesn’t make any attempts to hurry it along. He’s never much liked beating around the bush, but he also isn’t in any rush to talk about his relationship woes, with _Seungcheol_ of all people.   

“Yeah. It was just us for the longest time. We went through a lot together.” Jihoon says.

Seungcheol shoves his hands into his pockets to fight off the early morning chill and shoots Jihoon a fond look. It bears the soft edges of familial love and that hasn’t bothered Jihoon in a long time.

“My rejection didn’t like, traumatize you or anything, did it?”

Jihoon isn’t surprised by the turn of topic. This was where they were headed to begin with.

He answers honestly, but not unkindly. “A little, at first. I really liked you and I had to see you all day, every day.”

Seungcheol appears sheepish in the dim glow from the streetlamps and the neon signs lighting up the shop fronts they pass on their way home. Even in the half dark, dressed in faded grey sweats and an oversized hoodie, he looks breathtaking, soft and beautiful. Jihoon recalls a time when the mere sight of Seungcheol in the crowded dorm halls would set his heart racing. Now he just feels a buzzing warmth in his chest, the same comfortable wash of emotion he gets whenever he has his grandmother’s cooking.

“I regretted turning you down at first. Even with so many people in the dorms it was lonely and you aren’t…you’re pretty and talented and engaging. It would’ve been easy to fall into something with you.” Seungcheol admits.

It stings, just a little. 

Jihoon sucks in a harsh breath, huffs it out as a laugh. “That is… _so_ not helpful. Like at all.”

“I’m not-I just-” He struggles to find the right words. “You never looked at me the way you look at them.”

Jihoon swears under his breath, then out loud. “Fucking Soonyoung, I can’t tell him anything.”

“Actually, it was Wonwoo.” Seungcheol says, giving him a wry smiling.

The words stop Jihoon dead in his tracks, right in front of a soondubu jjigae place closed for the evening.

“Seriously?”

Seungcheol stops too. “Yeah. He’s like…really invested. They both are. I can tell you are too.”

Jihoon looks up at the older boy thoughtfully as he lets the words sink in.

“Why are you even telling me any of this?” He asks.

“Aside from the fact that this is affecting the whole group?” Seungcheol shrugs. “I know how you are. I know how stuck in your own head you can get. I don’t want you to think so hard that you miss your chance at something really good.”

Jihoon thinks of the way Junhui had appeared in his studio so many weeks ago. Jihoon hadn’t even noticed him at first, so used to the other boy’s presence. He was nervous where he sat on the couch, shy blush coloring his cheeks as he fiddled with his fingers. But he had been so sure when he made his confession. Wonwoo seemed less confident, not of his own feelings but of Jihoon’s, yet he had still said the words so fearlessly. _‘I do like you Jihoonie’_. And they had waited, all this time, without pushing him or pushing him away. Even Junhui, with all of his impatience and persistence, had given him the time he needed.

“I won’t. I’m done thinking.” Jihoon says, certain.

Seungcheol searches his face for any inkling of doubt or hesitance, but comes up empty. He smiles, soft and brotherly, proud.

“Good.”

They resume walking.

…

Directly adjacent to their apartment complex is an unremarkable little ‘artisan’ coffee shop, the likes of which can be found all over Seoul, dotting the city like warts on a toad. Jihoon had visited the place once with Seungkwan at the younger boy’s insistence. The coffee was fine, nothing special, and the blueberry scone he bought was good if a little dry around the edges. It wasn’t enough to make him go back a second time, but they did have a little rooftop patio that captured his attention.

The shop owner had converted the space into a contemporary garden filled with potted ivies and ferns and an endless number of tiny cactuses. During the day, it was packed to the brim with actual paying customers, but after hours it belonged to Jihoon. His frequent visits were definitely at least a little illegal, but that knowledge did nothing to deter him from visiting his urban nighttime sanctuary.

Wonwoo had asked him about it once, where he disappeared to in the middle of the night. Jihoon hadn’t minded sharing the strange oasis with the other boy, hadn’t minded when Junhui had started sharing the space too.

They find him there again, seated atop one of the picnic tables near the high railing, looking out over the city. The building that houses the small café isn’t all that tall really, only two stories, but it’s at the top of a hill so the view isn’t half bad. Jihoon can see all the way to Namsan Tower, though it doesn’t look like much more than a vague, glowing needle.

The sound of the fire escape clanging under two pairs of feet comes first, then the scrape of the pavement beneath the soles of their sneakers. Jihoon feels the heat radiating from their bodies just before they come into his line of sight. Wonwoo settles into the space to Jihoon’s right with his legs dangling off the edge of the table while Junhui takes the spot to his left, knees drawn close to his chest.

Junhui speaks first.

“It’s always so pretty up here.” He sighs, somewhat dreamily.

It _is_ pretty. The Seoul skyline is lit up bright, even in the dead of night; an intricate web of artificial light appearing something like manmade stars from so high up. Jihoon leans back onto his hands and turns his face up towards the sky, eyes closed, and lets out a long breath. Not a sigh, just a breath.

He makes his declaration into the night. “I like you. I like you both.”

They’re sitting close, two stripes of heat up against his sides. He easily hears the way Junhui sucks in a sharp breath, feels the way Wonwoo stiffens quick then relaxes all at once. He imagines they must be able to hear the way his heart is pounding away in his chest.

From the corner of his eye he sees Wonwoo lick anxiously at his lips.

“Is there a ‘but’?” He asks, cautious.

Jihoon shakes his head. “No but. That’s it.”

“Do you want to be our boyfriend?” Junhui’s tone is sweet enough to rot.

Jihoon swallows. He hadn’t thought much of what would come after his confession. He hadn’t thought much _at all_ , if he’s being honest. Boyfriend seems so…intense, but he can’t deny the way the thought of being anything like that makes his heart kick up a few more paces.

 _Boyfriend_. He rolls the word around his head, tests it on his tongue. “Boyfriend.”

It feels powerful. Grand and terrifying, but he wants, with his whole heart he _wants_.

“Yeah I-yeah. That would be…nice.”

Its awkward and stilted, uninspired despite the all of the blush-y words spilling in his mind. He’s a songwriter for Christ’s sake, he should be able to say something pretty, but his tongue is clumsy with nerves and the weight of all the possibilities ahead of him- _them_. Junhui beams wide and blinding all the same, face bright enough to rival all of the city lights. His eyes disappear into his cheeks with the strength of his smile, transforming into happy little crescent moons. He drops his head onto Jihoon’s shoulder without asking permission, easy and content.

“Ah.” He sighs, dreamy again. “I’m so happy.”

It’s sweet, so sweet. Jihoon can feel his cavities growing, but there is an unsettling silence to his right, one that he can’t ignore.

“But what about Wonwoo?” Jihoon asks, turning to face the boy in question.

Junhui laughs. The sound is strange and delighted. “Wonwoo has been writing love poems about you since December.”

The flush that spreads across Wonwoo’s face is so quick and vibrant that Jihoon worries for his health, but Jihoon isn’t much better off himself. He’s sure his blush must go all the way down to his toes.

“They aren’t love poems.” He mutters unconvincingly.

“ _Oh, but he is the moon that has made my heart into a raging sun. I hope that-_ ” Junhui’s overdramatic crooning is cut short by a shriek when Wonwoo lunges at him.

The table tips dangerously from the shift of weight and Jihoon pushes him back to his rightful spot, just managing to keep them from toppling to the ground. One head wound is plenty for a single night. They lapse into silence, each trying to catch their breath after the sudden struggle.

An honest to God giggle finds its way from Jihoon’s throat.

“A raging sun, huh?” He asks through his hysterics.

Wonwoo shoots Junhui a murderous glare, cheeks growing a shade or two darker.

“I can’t believe you read my journal.” He sulks.

When Jihoon looks back towards the city, he finds dawn breaking across the sky. It feels almost like that pale light is filtering into him, erasing whatever doubt or uncertainty that may have remained.

…

They go to sleep as the rest of world begins to wake up, crammed together in Wonwoo’s tiny bed. It’s cramped, and hot from where Jihoon is laying in the middle. He can already feel himself beginning to sweat. One of Junhui’s elbows is jabbing painfully into his ribs, and Wonwoo’s toes feel fucking hypothermic against his own, but he wouldn’t dream of moving.

As he lays there, drifting slowly off to sleep, he thinks there was never any space between them to begin with. There was no canyon, no desert, nothing. Instead, there was a cave, damp and cold and a little too small to fit all three of them comfortably, but a space just for them all the same.

He thinks they’ll be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, you made it to the end. And look, Cat can write conclusions! Who woulda thunk? I don't know if I'm happy with this fic or if I even like it, but it was hell to write so I had to post it. If you liked it...I love you. Also, let me know if the poly aspect was written poorly because I'm working on another poly fic atm that I really like and I need to know if I should just throw in the towel now. Um and I don't know about the characterization? I'm still fairly new to writing for Seventeen so I'm not fluent in them yet. Anyways, I hope y'all are all having a good day. Feel free to hmu on [tumblr](http://c-smicyoongi.tumblr.com/).


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